Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. You’ll never see the light of day as long as you live. “My Mom makes more money than my Dad, a lot more. It was lent me by a countryman o' mine; but I paid him back in his own coin—ha! ha!" "A countryman of yours, Terry?" "Ay, and a noble one, too, Quilt—more's the pity! You've heard of the Marquis of Slaughterford, belike?" "Of course; who has not? He's the leader of the Mohocks, the general of the Scourers, the prince of rakes, the friend of the surgeons and glaziers, the terror of your tribe, and the idol of the girls!" "That's him to a hair?" cried Terence, rapturously. .
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